Windswept Fate
by Id42
Summary: The tale of Eben Tain, a wanderer in the Wheel of Time world. Originally intended as a character background for a WoT campaign.. I like it, but please, for the love of god, R&R. Or I'll hate you. ^_^


Wheel of Time: Windswept Fate 

Windswept Fate

  
  


**I**

  
  
    The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the mountains called the Spine of the World. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was _a_ beginning.   
    The wind blew lazily between the mountaintops, swirling about huge stone outcroppings before beginning to descend, heading southwest, picking up speed as it went. Down it blew, howling through rocky corridors, until finally it left the mountains and continued out through the great Haddon Mirk. On and on it blew, down into the city of Tear, where it buffeted buildings and harried the citizens. Tearing through the city's main street, it plucked a hat off a man's head and began to carry it off.   
    "Light!" shouted Eben Tain, reaching up and snatching his cap from the air. Jamming it down onto his head, he plodded miserably on down the street, leading a sleek grey mare named Thunder. Along with the things she was carrying- a partial suit of plain armor, a short sword, some rather dubious rations, and a bedroll- she was, to his mind, the fair spoils of his brief military career.   
    The military. Hah! Now there was a poor idea if ever he'd heard one. Turned out of his rather poor home to seek his fortune, he'd decided- of all mush-brained things- to join the Illianer army. He'd stuck with it for three months- and if that wasn't giving it a fair chance, he didn't know what was!- but he'd finally decided that he couldn't deal with being barked at and ordered around all day for the meager pay given a soldier. Well, that wasn't his only reason for leaving; the screaming match he'd gotten into with his commanding officer hadn't made his decision any harder.   
    The only consideration he'd had to make was that of destination-he could hardly leave without knowing where he was going- but that hadn't been difficult. His father often told tales of his native Tear, so that seemed a likely place to start on his road to certain riches.   
    So here he was, walking into the heart of Tear with a stolen horse and a suit of armor he intended to sell, as soon as he found a buyer. And, to top it all off, it was starting to rain.   
  


**II**

  
  
    Four months later, Eben had successfully settled into Tear. He was renting a room above a tailor's shop from a friendly elderly couple who looked on him as the son they'd never had. He was making a fair living as a gambler and freelance information gatherer- but he was about to make himself obscenely rich. He'd gotten ahold of the blueprints to Lord Arellin's manor, forged a paper identifying him as an appraiser hired by Arellin, and had been brainstorming contingency plans all week. Oh, he'd appraise Arellin's possessions, all right: appraise them, and then make off with the most valuable. He'd be carrying his plans off tonight, when Arellin would be at a grand ball at the High Lord Brend's manor.   
    Dusk found Tain standing in front of Arellin's gates in a long, dark coat and a largish hat, his shoulder-length hair tied back. Pulling out a rolled-up document, he addressed the yawning guard standing in front of the massive iron gates. "The name's Jon Hopwil, m'Lord, appraiser by trade. Been hired by Lord Arellin. Would you be so kind as to open those gates?" The guard examined his paperwork, and inside of ten minutes Tain was standing in the middle of Arellin's rather impressive collection of Sea Folk porcelain, wholly alone. This was too easy! Turning a critical eye to the goods, he secreted a pair of beautiful vases inside his bulky coat and hid a small bowl beneath his hat. Into his pockets went a small family of porcelain cats. Grinning, he adjusted his hat and left the room. This was brilliant! He'd make hundreds of crowns, a thousand! He left the manor with a spring in his step.   
    As he passed through the iron gates, he made the mistake of tipping his hat to the guard on duty; the bowl gleamed in the light of the torches mounted on the building's outer wall. The guard nodded at him, then halted, eyes widening; "Thief!" he cried. Cursing, Eben dashed off, willing his legs to carry him away, away, anywhere that wasn't here...   
    He slowed to a brisk walk as he entered the city's main street, attempting to blend in with the crowd. After several minutes of impatiently navigating through the throng, he ducked into a dark alley to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard, determinedly shoving his way through the mass of people. Inexorably, he passed by, completely oblivious to the sidestreets and alleys. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Eben headed home.   
  
    Lord Arellin scowled at the guardsman. "And what, pray tell, was worth pulling me out of a social event- a very _important_ social event, I'll have you know!- to tell me?"   
    The guard gulped. "A.. a thief, my Lord."   
    "A thief? Where? In the manor? Are you certain?"   
    "Saw him making off with your porcelain with my own eyes, my Lord."   
    Arellin grimaced, considering this. "Hire a thief-taker," he said icily. "The best. The man _must_ be caught. Well? Why aren't you going?" The guard essayed a hasty bow and quickly walked out.   
  


**III**

  
  
    The next day, Eben awoke to raised voices from downstairs. From the position of the sun, he could tell that it was late afternoon. With a low moan he rolled out of bed, hurriedly throwing on a pair of pants and a shirt. Glancing anxiously about the room, he searched for his coat- but he hadn't been thinking last night, he'd left it downstairs...   
    Now he could hear heavy steps on the stairs. His eyes darted about, searching for anything that he could use for his defense- he didn't want to fight if he could avoid it, wasn't any good at it anyway, but he'd do it if he had to- but all of his weaponry was in his Light-forsaken coat, and if he had to try to fight with a makeshift weapon he'd surely lose. Light! The footsteps were still approaching, he had no _time_... the window! Quickly, he removed the locks on the window's frame and pulled it open, stuck a leg out...   
    The doorknob turned, and the door swung smoothly open. Eben froze, like a deer suddenly bathed in a hunter's torchlight, staring at the man who had entered. He wore a gray coat, an odd, conical cap, and a hard, determined expression; his face looked like age-darkened wood. Raising a notched short sword, he addressed the fleeing thief. "You'll come back into this room, if you want to see another day."   
    Eben slowly pulled himself back into the room without taking his eyes off the man. "A thief-taker. Light. You must be bloody good, to have been able to track me down so quickly. Who _are_ you?"   
    "Juilin Sandar," the man replied. "There are those that say that I'm the best." He turned to the old man, who had silently entered behind him. "Fetch me some flour, three eggs- good eggs, mind, not half-spoiled ones- and a bowl of sugar."   
    As Sandar was listing these items, Eben suppressed a laugh. The man was trying to use his imagination against him! Well, he'd see how well that kind of tactic worked against Eben Tain. Composing himself, he managed to stutter, "You're not going to..." Sandar nodded. "Surely, you wouldn't!"   
    "I would," the man said coolly.   
    "Please, sir, don't... don't _bake me a cake!_"   
    Sandar looked at him for a moment, then broke out laughing. Eben grinned at him. "You're a quick one," the thief-taker accused, "I'll grant you that. No fooling you, I can see. But listen, I can't go back to Arellin empty-handed: either you can give me the porcelain, and I'll tell him that you got away but left it behind..."   
    "Or?"   
    "Or we can do this the hard way. I'm afraid you wouldn't much like that."   
    Eben sighed. "It's all in my coat and hat. Downstairs."   
    "Wonderful," Juilin replied. "I'll be on my way, then."   
    "Wait-"   
    "Yes?"   
    "How _did_ you find me?"   
    "Practice."   
    "Teach me?"   
  


**IV**

  
  
    As the weeks went by, Sandar taught Eben what he knew: lying, psychology, reading people, manipulating them, and how to brew extraordinary tea, and he began to become more and more successful as an information broker. Finally, several months after his first encounter with the thief-taker, Eben decided that it had been far too long since he'd last seen his home. He packed up his various possessions and set out once more for Illian.   
    Two weeks later, he was walking briskly from the inn at which he'd secured lodgings for the night to his childhood home. When he got there, though, it was gone; nothing but a shallow hole, partially filled with assorted junk, remained. He stood for several minutes in shock before an arm wrapped around his shoulders. "Oh, Eben," he heard his mother say, "I'm sorry you had to see this."   
    He blinked, finding his eyes suddenly full of tears. "What... what happened?"   
    "A mob... nationalists who hated your father, hated what he stood for, hated the idea that Tairens aren't all evil money-grubbing manipulators. They burned the house down..."   
    "And dad? Is he...?"   
    "They killed him. Alman Denrick and his thugs, they hunted him down and- I'm sorry, Eben. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."   
    Eben stood silently for a moment. Finally, he spoke. "I have to go."   
    "I understand," his mother said softly. "Just... just don't get yourself hurt, okay?"   
    "I won't. Goodbye, mom." He hugged her, and then he was gone.   
  


**V**

  
  
    He'd just killed a man. Oh, Light, what had he done? Murder. He could feel the blood dripping from his hands, dripping down along his knife to join the crimson puddle on the ground. Light.   
    It had been so _easy_. Filled with a cold rage, he'd set about finding Denrick. It hadn't been hard; the man was every bit as unobtrusive as a building on fire and as subtle as a rock to the back of the head. All he'd had to do was buy a few people a few drinks and they were only too willing to talk about Almon Denrick, the self-styled man of the people, piggish boor and executor of anti-Tairen sentiments. They said he had a Tairen flag hanging on his wall just so he could throw things at it when he was angry and piss on it when he was drunk. Bastard. Tracking him down hadn't been hard at all, and neither had breaking into the pathetic hole the man lived in. Denrick had been a firm believer in the idea that bigger meant better, and so he employed a single gigantic deadbolt on his door: impossible to break, but worthless against a man with a pick.   
    He'd opened the door in minutes, then quietly snuck through the house. Denrick was passed out on a couch opposite the entry. Pulling the knife from his belt, he'd slammed the door carelessly behind him. Denrick began to stir. Quickly, he'd walked over and knelt in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and raising holding the knife to his rather thick neck. "Recognize me?" he'd demanded.   
    Denrick had looked shocked; he'd not been accustomed to being in a position of weakness. "No," he'd announced, "I've never seen you before."   
    "Take a good look," Eben had sneered.   
    He'd glared. "You look like Tairen filth."   
    "That's right," Eben had hissed. "Or, more accurately, the son of Tairen filth. Tairen filth that you murdered, you Light-forsaken bastard."   
    "Murdered? Wait, it's coming to me... Ah. So, the sniveling tailor _bred_? What a pity." He'd spat in Eben's face.   
    "I hope you're ready to die, you bastard." And he'd driven his blade home.   
    Blood. Blood everywhere. All over the room, all over his hands, all over himself. He'd never rid himself of it, never be clean. Oh, Light, the blood. What had he done? His father was still dead, and now another death had been added. Tears streaming down his face, he ran out of the house and, stopping only to mount Thunder, out of Illian.   
  
  


**VI**

  
  
    He fled, directionless. All he knew was that he had to leave. A month later he found himself riding into Ebou Dar, gaunt, wild-eyed and slumped in the saddle. It took more than a year for his emotional wounds to heal, a year he spent gambling, drinking, and sleeping with anyone he could find. He didn't want to be alone. Months passed, and his pocket grew steadily lighter, despite his best efforts to win himself enough to live on. In truth, he did win that, and more, but he spent it so quickly that it didn't matter. Every beggar he passed he tossed a gold mark to, and he bought only the most expensive drink for himself. After a long, long time he realized that he needed to move on. Once more, it was time for a grand scheme.   
    Horse races, that was the ticket. Horse racing was Ebou Dar's national pastime: what better way to make a buck than by fudging things a little thereon? Several ideas were entertained and then discarded. He could bet on a weaker horse and then sabotage the favorite, but he couldn't be sure which horse would win in that case. He could enter Thunder and then somehow cheat to make her run faster than the _other_ horses, but he couldn't come up with any ways to do that. He could enter Thunder and sabotage all the other horses, but that would probably be noticed... Finally, the perfect idea came to him. Why not simply forge tickets for huge bets on three or four different horses, and then use whichever ticket won? Of course, he'd have to convince the bookkeeper that there had been an error and his bet hadn't been recorded, but for a man of his talents that would be easy. He knew he was up to the task.   
    The first step, then, was to construct the tickets. He'd seen more than enough of them in the past year, and knew intimately how they were created. They were precisely _this_ size, with _these_ words in _these_ places, and _this_ signature, and a stamp just so... examining his forgeries, he found them to be flawless. Now all he had to do was execute his plan.   
    This, too, was laughably simple. He was in luck, and the bookkeeper whose window he went to was clearly a half-wit, probably a stand-in for another more competent employee. It took Eben all of two minutes to explain to him, slowly and using small words, that there had been a mistake and his bet hadn't been written down, but really he'd come earlier and bought the ticket. He'd said "hello", and even complimented the man on his fine cap, didn't he remember? Shortly he was walking out of the circuit, smug, happy, and with pockets full of thick gold coins.   
    Within the hour, he was riding out of town. He regretted it; Ebou Dar really was a nice city, in its own fairly dangerous way. But it was definitely time to head elsewhere. Perhaps he'd try his luck in Caemlyn, or Cairhien... certainly plenty of money changing hands there. Well, he'd just have to see...   
As he rode through the city's gate, he took one last look around. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a flash of movement... a dark shape darting out of his field of vision. Shaking his head, he decided he truly did need a break from this paranoid city.   
  
    In a dark room in a back alley of the Rahad, two cloaked figures met. Speaking in low voices, they discussed matters that could not be talked about in the light of day- the business of the Sha'hala, the Ebou Dari mob.   
    One of them, a man, said, "You're sure it was him?"   
    The female nodded. "Yes, sir. It was most definitely Tain."   
    "I hear he won quite a bit at the Circuit of Heaven today."   
    "That's what my operatives reported, sir."   
    "Interesting, is it not?"   
    "Sir?"   
    "I meant that someone would leave so soon after a big win. It seems... suspicious. You've been following the man. Does he seem the sort that would just... run off?"   
    "He has seemed a bit... restless, sir, yes. On the other hand, he does have a reputation as a bit of a rogue... I would say there are even odds that the money he won today was obtained by trickery and deception, rather than luck."   
    "My thoughts exactly. Send a squad. I don't care if he dies, but I want our gold back."   
    "Certainly, sir."   
  


**VII**

  
  
    Lying on his bed in the Wallowing Hog, Eben Tain sighed heavily. Caemlyn was, bar none, the most boring city he had ever visited. Granted, the only competition was Illian, Tear, and Ebou Dar- but still, he would've expected a little more merriment in the capital of as large a kingdom as Andor. Instead, the city was full of people who did nothing but mutter rumors and trade suspicious glares.   
    It was the fault of this false Dragon fellow, what's his name, that much was clear. Something-or-other al'Thor. Tain couldn't quite remember, slightly drunk as he was. At any rate, the man had apparently stormed into the city and killed the Queen and her consort, and was now, by all reports (although it wasn't terribly evident) ruling Caemlyn with an iron fist. Eben almost wished someone would show up and kill al'Thor himself, just to liven the place up a bit. Light, but the city was stifling. He'd only been in it for a week, but that was more than he would've liked, to be sure.   
    Of course, this "Black Tower" didn't help matters any, either. A school set up to teach men to channel? And led by another false Dragon, yet! Light! No wonder the whole city was on edge. Just another reason to get away...   
    He supposed he'd give it another day or so before deciding whether or not to leave. Caemlyn did have very good alcohol, after all, and the women were pretty enough. Perhaps he'd have some luck in that department. He hadn't had a bit of romance in ages... That's what he should do, see if he could meet a nice girl and go from there.   
    As he considered this, the window began to open. This was decidedly odd, as he was certain he'd locked it, and who opened windows from the outside anyway? There was a vaguely human-shaped form outside- logical enough- but the curtains shielded the person from view, so that he couldn't tell anything more than that. The window continued to rise, and Eben watched bemusedly as the curtains parted. A beautiful woman entered. She was clad in nondescript brown and gray clothing, with short black hair. A dagger was sheathed at her hip, but not for long; she drew it, and gestured menacingly at him with it.   
    "Um," Eben managed. "Hello?"   
    She scowled at him. "Give me the money, Eben Tain, or you will die."   
    Eben glanced around. "What... money?"   
    "The money you stole from the Sha'hala, you impudent little scum."   
    "Ohhhhh," he said, pulling out a drawer in his nightstand and retrieving the heavy bag of gold. "You mean _this_ money." He stood up, shambling slowly and erratically over to her. His arm swung behind him, apparently with the weight of the gold and his drunkenness. Approaching her, he swung the bag up, as if to hand it to her... and continued his arm's arc, sending the bag smashing into the woman's face. As she stumbled backward, he raised the bag again and carefully clubbed her in the back of the head- hard enough to knock her out, but, he hoped, not enough to kill her. Picking up her dagger and hastily gathering his things, he fled.   
  


**VIII**

  
  
    Eben cursed as he rode out of Caemlyn. Of all the bloody, flaming _light-forsaken luck_! He had wished for a _nice_ girl, not some crazed mob goon. If he had known that that's what he'd be getting, he wouldn't have wished quite so fervently...   
    Light. Where to go now? Since the Ebou Dari were after him, north seemed a sensible place to go. He wasn't much for cold, and felt he'd probably soil himself if he ever saw a Trolloc, so the Borderlands were likely out of the question. Tar Valon, though... that might be a good place to hide. He'd heard stories about the witches, of course, the Aes Sedai, but he didn't think they'd probably trouble with someone as irrelevant as him. Well... maybe not so irrelevant, if they were sending assassins after him... At any rate, he felt he could be safe there. He could probably hire some sort of bodyguards, maybe a failed Warder or something. And he could buy himself some sort of protection, maybe a nice sword... he'd heard you could buy just about anything in Tar Valon, if you had enough money. Some of it was even real.   
    Tar Valon it was, then. He rode north.   
  
    Four days of hard riding later, he was entering Tar Valon's gates. It was everything he'd heard- awe-inspiring, amazing, beautiful. He slowed Thunder to a walk and just stared for a while. Then he came to his senses and decided to find an inn. After half an hour's search he'd determined that the best he was going to find in a hurry was the Great Serpent. This was unfortunately out of the question, as it was clearly pandering to tourists, and anyone looking for him would be likely to search such places first. He settled for a more meager establishment called the Wooden Bucket.   
    The next day, having gotten settled nicely into the inn, he decided to have a look around town. First, he wanted to go down and have a look around the guardhouse, get a feel for the local law enforcement. Then maybe he'd head to the markets, see what he could buy.   
    The guardhouse was a large one, right past the gate. Soldiers in gleaming armor walked in and out at regular intervals. It seemed this city's law enforcement was serious business... better to play it safe whenever possible, he thought, sitting on a bench outside. There was a huge fountain in front of him, and he decided he'd just stare at it for a while.   
  
    He felt a hand firmly grasping his shoulder. What was going on? It seemed he'd fallen asleep. Looking up, he saw the black-haired woman from Caemlyn... and three more similarly clad. He swore at himself inwardly. What in the name of the Light did he think he was doing, dozing in front of Tar Valon's south gate?! And now he was going to die, he was sure.   
    "Well?" the woman demanded.   
    He stood up and turned around. "Er, sorry about that. Back in Caemlyn. I mean, really. Sorry."   
    "And the money?"   
    "About that... well. It's in the inn. Where I'm staying."   
    "Which inn is this?"   
    "The Shining Walls, it's called. I'll show you where it is."   
    "Don't try anything funny." She scowled, gesturing for him to proceed.   
    Light, Light, Light. Bloody flaming Light. What had he gotten himself into this time? He walked a random path through the streets, keeping well away from the Wooden Bucket. He seemed to be approaching the markets... surely he could lose them there. He saw a cart coming toward the next intersection, soon to pass in front of them... this was it. He slipped between some people, around the cart, and took off running.   
    He ran for a good ten minutes, cutting through the crowds, weaving randomly through Tar Valon's busy streets. He was almost certain he'd lost the women, but he couldn't be sure... He knew he shouldn't, but he had to look. He turned his head quickly; there they still were, chasing him, scowling, angry... and he hit something. A wall, it felt like. No... not a wall; a soldier. A tall man, armored, with dark but slightly graying hair, a rather beak-like nose, and a distinctly displeased expression.   
    "Help me. You've got to, please. There are women chasing me, mob goons from Ebou Dar. I don't think they would attack you..."   
    The big man smirked at him. "And why would I want to help you?"   
    "Because you're a good, decent human being, one that wouldn't leave a fellow decent human being to mob goons?"   
    "Either you're very brave, or very stupid. Not many would run from the Ebou Dari mob. What's your name, boy?"   
    "Tain."   
    The man's eyes widened. His hand jerked towards the hilt of the sword at his hip. "You're lucky that you looking nothing like a Saldaean or you'd be quite dead. I thought you said 'Taim.'"   
    "No, I most certainly did not. Tain, with an 'n'. Eben Tain. I'm no false Dragon."   
    Another smirk. "Very well then." The man stuck out his hand. "Taram t'Marden Vin."   
    Eben shook it. "Good to meet you, sir. Now, is there anything else you'd like to know, or may we be off?"   
    "There's plenty I'd like to know, but it can wait. I'm just about done here, so if you'll wait a moment I can take you back to camp."   
    "Camp?"   
    "Yes. It's right outside the city."   
    "And what all... is in this camp?"   
    "My army, of course."   
    "Oh."   
  
  


**IX**

  
  
    Eben learned, over the next several days, that they were bound for Caemlyn. He gathered that Vin was chasing someone, and given the way he'd reacted at their first meeting, this could only be Mazrim Taim. If he remembered correctly, the false Dragon had ravaged Saldaea before finally being caught and gentled... could it be that Taim had killed someone close to Vin? It seemed to fit... It became apparent, through conversations with various soldiers, that this was _not_ a sanctioned mission. It seemed that Vin's men had been through a lot with him, and were more than willing to join him on his vendetta...   
    In any case, Eben hoped he'd be able to avoid the majority of _that_ conflict. Charging into a knot of half-mad male Power-users didn't sound exactly like a good idea to him... to put it mildly. On the other hand, Vin had been willing to protect him, and he supposed he owed him some degree of allegiance...   
    A week's march brought them to Cairhien. Here, Eben had heard, Vin was planning to stock up once more on supplies- he was traveling light, and making frequent stops, rather than bring along wagons that would slow his troops down and make them easier targets. There wasn't enough time to do much in the city, so aside from a quick trip to the market to make some purchases, Eben decided he'd nap in camp.   
  
    He awoke to voices- a hat-wearing man was holding his tent flap open, peering inside. He spoke to someone still outside the tent. "Tell me, Commander, are all of your soldiers this lazy? Even if it's just the one, that speaks poorly for your unit's discipline."   
    Eben sat up. "Soldiers? I have no idea who you are, but I'll assure you, I'm no soldier."   
    The man entered, followed by Vim. He wore an odd wide-brimmed hat, and had a scarf wrapped around his neck. He looked around the tent, shaking his head. "I guess I'd hope you weren't."   
    "I tried it once, actually, but I found it wasn't to my liking. I'm just traveling with the Commander, here... he was gracious enough to save my hind parts from some crazed assassins in Tar Valon."   
    "That sounds like a story I'd like to hear. But... I don't suppose you're looking for some work?"   
    "Well, I might be, at that. What kind of work?"   
    "That depends on what you could offer me. I'm here with an army myself, you see... and I can always use men to fill a variety of roles, not all of them military. I need procurers, information gatherers... you name it."   
    "Well, you're in luck, then, sir. In Tear, I was reputed one of the best information gatherers in the business. By my clients, at any rate... not very many other people so much as knew my name, you understand."   
    "Right. Well, in that case, I'd say you're hired. Talk to Commander Vim sometime later today- he'll tell you where to go to join officially." Both men turned to leave.   
    "Excuse me, sir. If I might ask, who have I been hired _by_?"   
    The strange man tipped his hat. "Mat Cauthon, General of the Band of the Red Hand."   
    Eben frowned. "Mat Cauthon? The name sounds familiar. Wait... have you ever been up in the Borderlands?"   
    Mat nodded. "Shienar."   
    "Yeah, I have heard of you. A few of Vim's men have cousins in Shienar... they tell stories, once in a while, of a young dandy by the name of Lord Cauthon. Who won all of their money, and refused to be called a Lord."   
    Mat chuckled. "I'm _not_ a flaming _Lord_, but I did make quite a bit of gold for myself in Shienar... I'm surprised they still talk about me, though."   
    "I guess you must have made quite an impression on them. Not that hard, I'd say, when all they have to talk about is the weather and Trolloc raids."   
    "True enough. I'm impressed, though- you _are_ good. Forget talking to Vim; I'm sure you'll be able to find the recruiter's tent on your own!"  
  
_ - - -  
  
More tales of Eben Tain to come! They'll occur after I've played enough of the campaign to write a fic version of what's happened. Stay tuned! ^_^  
  
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End file.
